How cool.
I explained how to panfry them and told him how much balsamic vinegar, dried cherries, and prosciutto I used. “And don’t forget to top them with some grated parmesan cheese and a little lemon zest.”
My younger children already like to help me cook. Lately, they’ve become interested in gardening. We decided to plant a family vegetable garden. Erin and I went to a nursery and bought heirloom seeds and together with the kids planted tomatoes, sugar snap peas, strawberries, carrots, and broccoli. I watched in astonishment as these things that looked like lint balls eventually started to send up green shoots as the kids watered them day after day. As the plants started to grow, I found I too had a desire to nurture them so they would grow up big and strong. It was something I could never have imagined myself feeling.
One afternoon Colin, who is in elementary school, told me, “I have some important work to do.” Then he scurried out the back door. After a few minutes, I went out and checked on him. What could he be doing that was so important to him? He was kneeling in our vegetable patch pulling weeds.
Soon enough we had a bumper crop of tomatoes, and the kids and I made huge vats of tomato sauce. We froze some, but we used a lot in lasagna and on pizzas we learned to bake together. I found a recipe for a thin-crust dough; we all sat around mixing and rolling, and then we topped our pizzas with our homegrown tomato sauce and grilled them in a wood-burning stone pizza oven we had built in the backyard.
There’s something wonderful and almost therapeutic about making your own food, from seed to table. If you told me fifteen years ago that I would have photos on my phone of the lasagna I made with my kids, I would have called you crazy. But the photos are there.
We have a family-friendly, food-friendly, wine-friendly household. We sit and eat together as a family, and I look forward to it every day. Sometimes I’m reminded of a sunny afternoon in the 1980s when I watched from the pool at the Sunset Marquis as the band Mike + the Mechanics checked in with their kids and strollers and nannies. I remember shaking my head, thinking it was the most uncool thing I had ever seen. These days there’s nothing I consider cooler than being on our jet with the kids running up and down the aisle. Or standing onstage in front of one hundred thousand people at the Download Festival while my kids watch and wave from the side of the stage. Or walking backstage and seeing Emily, Sarah, and Colin in their pajamas. It’s amazing.
And to have it at my age is even more amazing. Perhaps it’s unusual to be sixty-two years old and have a two-year-old. Certainly, I feel blessed. People equate getting old with shutting down, with the joy seeping out of your life. But me? I’m in love with my wife. I love my kids. There’s a part of my life that’s over, but what’s taken its place is so much more fulfilling. Sure, every once in a while I look at a hot young woman and think for a fleeting moment about what I will never again have. But when I think of what I have instead, it’s no contest.
That’s also why I finally decided to write this book. Because despite the odds, I managed to go from a very unhappy place to a peaceful, harmonious place. If I found a path—no matter how long and arduous—to happiness and satisfaction, I firmly believe others can, too. It may not be an easy road, but sticking to that road and pushing forward is the most worthwhile thing you’ll ever do.
We tend to compromise through life and lower the bar; we settle for relationships or jobs because we’re not sure that we can do better—or that we even deserve better. But we can do better, and we do deserve it.
Life is not about surrendering.
65.
Because of the makeup, KISS today looks pretty much the same as we did forty years ago. But the longer I keep at this, the more I realize that I’m not invincible. It’s an ever more daunting task to get up there and sing and play guitar and dance and do it in a way that appears effortless. Nobody wants to see somebody killing himself onstage. I enjoy every minute of performing, but it has always been physically grueling, and it certainly is more so now.
When I was younger, people asked me, “Doesn’t it hurt when you jump up in the air and land on your knees like that?”
“No,” I said.
Well, I wish I had their phone numbers. Because all those years of doing jumps without pain have left me with a reminder: my knees hurt now.
I don’t know whether people in the audience can fathom just how difficult it is—or the extent to which they themselves make it possible. I could never jump around like that at a rehearsal. I depend on those people. I depend on the rush of adrenaline I get from them. Every night I find myself up there with a huge smile on my face, laughing, having a great time.
It’s a gift, and it’s terrific that I love it and have fun doing it, and it’s doubly terrific to look out into the audience and see other people loving it, too.
I never understand bands who say they’re sick of playing their hit songs. I’m thrilled to play our big songs. I’m proud of those songs. And the people at our shows deserve to hear the music the way they love it. God knows how many times I’ve played “Firehouse” over the course of the past forty years, but I still love it. When Gene, Tommy, and I rock back and forth to “Deuce,” it’s the ultimate middle finger to the people who don’t like us and the ultimate salute to those who do. Each night is the only night that counts to the people at that show. They weren’t at the show the night before, and they won’t be at the one tomorrow. I won’t let them down.
Most rock and roll is so age-specific or demographic-specific—your favorite band can’t be your older brother’s favorite band, and god forbid it be your parents’ favorite band. A KISS show is different: it’s a gathering of a large, long-lasting society that transcends any demographics.
There’s nothing better than seeing people holding up their children during a show. People want to share this cult of millions with their kids—it means that much to them. Those people are happy. They’re getting a break from whatever else is going on in their lives. Even as citizens of the world with a sense of morality and purpose, everyone is entitled to a day off. All the problems of the world will still be there tomorrow.
What KISS does is timeless. We sing about self-empowerment, celebrating life, believing in yourself—and sex.
It ain’t a crime to be good to yourself.
Is there anything more truthful than that?
We’re all here one time, and why should anyone but you get to decide who you love and how you spend your time?
We sing about the joys of being alive.
On the Sonic Boom tour, Gene, Tommy, and I would get into a caged-in platform behind Eric’s drums before the first song started. As we played the first song, the platform would go up and over the drums and eventually put us down at the front of the stage. It was a spectacular effect. I can’t tell you how many times, as we came over the top and I first saw the audience, I got choked up and teary eyed.
I looked out over the crowd and was amazed.
What a blessing.
My God.
Had somebody told me KISS was going to last forty years with no end in sight—that I would be wearing the same outfit and not getting laughed off the stage, that on the contrary, we’d be selling out arenas and stadiums—I would never have believed it. I think the longer we’ve survived, the more potent we’ve become. There’s something inspiring about longevity. There’s something inspiring about going against the odds and thriving.
Perhaps the best way to win is not to play the game.
Twenty or thirty years ago, I couldn’t imagine the world without me, much less the band. But at some point, you can’t ignore the reality of your own mortality. I won’t be physically capable of performing in KISS forever. Something I’ve come to understand, though, is that I’m not immortal—the band is.
Nowadays I don’t confuse my role in the world or the band. I realize that KISS could—and should—go on without me. KISS isn’t like other bands. We’ve never subscribed to the limitations other bands impose on themselves. People
come to see the characters we created and what those characters represent. It’s not me they’re coming to see, but what I embody.
There was a time when people said nobody in this band could be replaced. It had to be the four of us. Well, they’re already 50 percent wrong. And they’re going to find out at some point that they’re 75 percent wrong, and then 100 percent wrong.
I’m objective enough about myself to realize that no matter how good I am—and I think I’m damn good—there’s somebody else out there who can do something equally valid. I think that being replaced would be a huge compliment, not a detriment. It’s part of what I hope we’ve built—an ideal that goes far beyond me.
Causes go on. Political parties go on without their founders. I think someone could come along who would be capable of carrying the flag just as well if not better—someone who can build on the foundation. I look forward to the day that I’m replaced in KISS. Not because I want to leave, but because it will prove I’m right: KISS is bigger than any of its members.
I’ve always said that I’m not just a member of KISS; I’m a member of the KISS Army. I look forward to watching the band I love continue to rock and roll all night long after my body is too shot to make it to the party every day.
Picture Section
Playing Tompkins Square Park in the East Village with “The Baby Boom.”
© Maury Englander
Me in my bedroom at age sixteen with big plans.
I’m eighteen, living on 75th Road. That was my turquoise Ford Fairlane.
Gene, me, Peter, and Ace. In the beginning we were invincible.
© Neil Zlozower
Japan, 1977. The fans would make me all these dolls.
A young Starchild on the Destroyer Tour.
© Barry Levine
On tour in 1977; a spur-of-the-moment decision to dress like Elvis. Cool and all shook up.
1977: Goodbye Uriah Heap, hello Linda
I dreamed up this insanity.
© Mark Weiss
No wires. No tricks.
© Denis O’Regan
Defying gravity in Europe on the Sonic Boom Tour 2008.
© Denis O’Regan
Preaching from the pulpit. Can I get a hallelujah?!
© Denis O’Regan
On our most recent tour. Mayhem in a confetti storm and it’s all over.
© Al Soluri
Electric Lady Studios in 1985, recording Asylum.
Forty years. Together through it all.
© Denis O’Regan
Gene, Eric, me, and Tommy.
The best music.
The best show.
The best times.
© Ross Halfin
Me and Lady Gaga. She flew cross-country to come to the show and wore my boots for the entire show. She is the real deal. Holmdel, New Jersey, 2010.
Life doesn’t suck. Backstage at Wembley Arena, London, with my ultimate inspiration, Jimmy Page. A true gentleman.
November 19, 2005.
© Zen Todd
Doing one of those things I never imagined in my life. Baptizing Emily in church. Baptism for Colin, Sarah, and Emily was important to Erin so it was important to me. Evan was bar mitzvah’ d and the rest will be too. There is room for it all.
Proud papa with Evan at age thirteen.
© Ross Halfin
Phantom. . .a dream come true and I never worked harder in my life—an incredibly rewarding experience.
© Michael Cooper
I painted Robert Johnson for our entry to bless the house and remind us where it all started.
© Neil Zlowzower
With my little ones at the office.
It doesn’t get better than this.
© Ross Halfin
© Randy Johnson
Acknowledgments
Telling my story has been another milestone in my life. Incredibly rewarding in its connecting me through reflection to my life, its challenges, and its ultimate arrival at a pinnacle I never thought possible.
Over the years I’ve had no interest in adding my name to an ever-growing list of celebrities whose autobiographies seemed little more than a self-serving platform to brag and boast of supposed accomplishments.
With time, I came to envision telling my own story in a book that might possibly empower and inspire others to meet and overcome their own obstacles head-on and with hard work, as I believe I have.
Life, I have found, is a team sport, and I would need a small but dedicated and talented team to see this through.
I want to thank each of them:
On an intuitive gut hunch I contacted Tim Mohr as a possible collaborator. Within an hour of meeting we had rolled up our sleeves. He was totally dedicated to my story being in my words and my voice and helped put it into the best and most effective form possible. Tim’s opinions and point of view were indispensable. As if that alone wasn’t enough, he constantly left me both repulsed and in awe as he bravely sampled all kinds of questionable street foods during our travels abroad. Thank you, Tim.
Once I signed on with a publishing company, building a new relationship initially had to be based on what was said seeming simpatico between us, and ultimately on faith. Roger Freet, HarperOne’s executive editor, became a close ally who cheered me on, supporting me and implementing my ideas in all phases and aspects of Face the Music. When things got bogged down he was there. Thank you, Roger.
Thank you, Bill Randolph, for your guidance and work on my behalf to bring this project to both a start and a finish.
Thank you, Michael Levine, for your early belief that I had a story worth telling and helping me find a platform for it.
Thank you to all members of KISS over the years, but especially and with full appreciation to my brother to this day, Gene.
Thank you to my parents, William and Eva Eisen. Everything they did in my life was done always with the best of intentions. They gave me many gifts and I am here and who I am directly and indirectly because of them.
It seems almost redundant to thank my incredible wife, Erin, and wondrous children, Evan, Colin, Sarah, and Emily, who are at the very core of this book, but I can never thank them enough. Thank you again for your endless support, inspiration, and love.
And last but never forgotten, my fans. You made this road trip possible, and every mile I have traveled these past forty years is a direct result of what our relationship has enabled me to do. You remain in my thoughts and in my heart. I have always been humbled when told how I may have helped some of you on your road. Maybe you knowing me better now means we can still go further together. I hope so.
About the Author
PAUL STANLEY is the frontman and rhythm guitarist for KISS, which he cofounded in New York City in 1973. He is the designer of numerous KISS album covers, costumes, and concert stages, in addition to writing many of KISS’s most successful songs. With sales of more than one hundred million records worldwide, KISS sits atop the list of American bands, with the most gold-certified albums earned in history. Along with his bandmates, Stanley was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2014. A painter, with art sales reaching two million dollars; a solo musician; a musical stage performer; founding partner in Rock & Brews restaurants; and co-owner of the Arena Football League’s L.A. KISS, Stanley is a committed and active supporter of various Wounded Warrior Project organizations. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Erin, and four children.
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About the Collaborator
Tim Mohr is an award-winning translator of novels by such authors as Alina Bronsky, Charlotte Roche, and Wolfgang Herrndorf. He has also collaborated on best-selling memoirs by Gil Scott-Heron and original Guns N’ Roses bassist Duff McKagan. He spent several years as a staff editor at Playboy magazine, where he worked with writers including Hunter S. Thompson, Matt Taibbi, John Dean, and George McGovern. Mohr’s own writing has appeared in the New York Times, the Daily Beas
t, and New York magazine, among other publications. Before starting his writing career, he made his living as a club DJ in Berlin, Germany.
Praise
for Face the Music
“Paul Stanley proves himself as an artist in music and on canvas and now with a great book.”
—Jimmy Page
“An entertaining yet piercingly honest journey from self-conscious child to the world’s most visually famous rock band to, finally—with the makeup wiped away—a place of peace as a father and a man. Paul Stanley’s story is both ordinary and extraordinary, which makes it inspiring.”
—Mitch Albom, author of The First Phone Call from Heaven and Tuesdays with Morrie
“Both honest and inspirational. Amazing tales from one of rock’s great frontmen.”
—Sir Elton John
“Paul is a great man who has achieved great things. From the Popcorn Club all the way to the Hall of Fame, his story is inspiring and motivating for anyone who dreams big. As he said in 1978, ‘Wouldn’t You Like to Know Me?’ The answer is yes, and now we finally do.”
—Dave Grohl
Also by Paul Stanley
Nothin’ to Lose
Face the Music: A Life Exposed Page 39